Girl Scout Camp
by stefanie bean
Summary: A view of beach camp life from the point of view of those on the sidelines, the red-shirts that Sawyer calls "the Girl Scout Camp." Set during "Fire Water," 2x12, after Charlie sets the fire.


**Girl Scout Camp **

**(set during "Fire+Water," 2x12)**

In the center of the campsite, under a stand of tall, thin trees, a group of eight women sits around a fire. The crackle of burning wood almost drowns out their soft voices. They have learned not to speak too loudly. Under other circumstances, that might have bothered them. But here, on this beach on an unknown Island somewhere in the vast blue of the South Pacific, they don't mind. Quiet is their shield. Quiet means survival.

The smell of burning hangs over the beach, and not just from camp-fires. Late last night, Charlie Pace set a blaze right outside the beach camp, and for a few terrifying moments, it seemed that the camp might have caught fire too. He'd had another fight with his on-again, off-again girlfriend Claire, the young mother from Australia who lives on the other side of the beach, up by Sawyer. Claire has thrown Charlie out, but he isn't taking no for an answer. He's pitched a crude pup tent as close to Claire's shelter as he possibly can, where he sits just out of earshot, staring and glaring at her as she goes about her business. So far, he seems to be staying up on the beach's east end, and doesn't veer west near the women's group, so the women don't make a fuss. But they are keeping their eyes open for him, in case he comes around.

There's always work for hands that want it. One woman shows another how to scoop out a coconut shell without cracking it, and then how to smooth the edges so that it forms a useful, durable bowl. A few others grind up thick, sticky leaves from what they call the "soap plant." No one knows the names of most of the vegetation on this Island, except for a few obvious ones like ferns, cycads, or philodendron. The Korean woman Sun sometimes joins their circle, but she doesn't know most of their names, either. Maybe just a few, in Korean.

Someone once asked Sun how she knew so much about plants and growing things. Had she had worked in a greenhouse, or nursery? But in the serious voice Sun used around the women, with no demure smile or drop of the eyes, Sun said no, she didn't know anything about plants before she came here. There weren't any in her apartment in Seoul. She liked cut flowers, but what woman didn't? Sun went on to tell how right after they had all crashed here (or more accurately, woken up here, as the women around the campfire put it), she had stood in the clearing which eventually would become her garden, and she knew. She just knew what to plants to put in, and how to care for them. She couldn't explain it.

The women looked at each other when they heard this story, nodding. Knowing.

When you squished up the soap plant and mixed the paste with some wood ashes, coconut cream, and a few other things, you had a pretty passable soap. It didn't lather up, but it got the dirt and sweat off, and you smelled delicious besides. The men liked to shave with it because it was soft on the face, and made the razor just glide. Soap was money, too. Half a coconut shell of soap would net you two large fish, especially after the beach camp men decided that Sawyer's prices for the rapidly diminishing supply of shaving cream had climbed too high. Especially when they cut their faces when shaving without soap, and then got salt water in the abrasions.

Two women weave rugs made from scraps of tattered Oceanic Airlines blankets. The youngest of the group, an Indonesian girl in her late teens named Sirrah, was once a university student in Sydney. Now she twists the rags and knots them into strips, while an older woman called Kathy loops the strips together. The resulting thick rug will be stronger and more durable than the original pieces from which it is made.

On this late morning, the women talk about last night's fire, and the reasons behind it.

"Charlie's not going to let her leave him."

"Not surprising."

"She should have sent him packing long ago."

"They always take them back, don't they?"

"I know I did. Until I got smart."

"Claire hasn't been right since she disappeared. Since before the baby came."

"Do you believe him when he said that there was danger?"

"The only danger to that baby is him."

"Danger, Will Robinson, Danger!" Kathy drops her work to wave her hands around for effect, rolling her eyes.

The women laugh with low, knowing chuckles.

"Yeah, there's always a danger when they don't get what they want."

A lean, dark woman named Shana sands the edge of a coconut shell with a piece of dark grey stone. "She was really all right, until she started taking up with him."

"You were friends at first, weren't you?"

"Before we lost the fuselage, yeah."

"I remember," says the willowy blonde called Faith, in her soft middle-South drawl. "You and Kate and her. You sorted through the luggage." Faith doesn't live in the women's camp. She and her boyfriend Craig share a tent, right at the edge of the clearing where the beach forest trees yield to jungle. But she comes to sit with them every day to join in with the busy hands and tongues, while Craig goes out to fish or check his snares.

The women have talked about asking Claire over to their camp. Several times, in fact. But nothing has ever come of it.

Before Shannon Rutherford was cut down by a bullet no one believes was delivered by accident, she told them the story of Charlie and the fish. Shortly after the crash, while Charlie was checking her out, he bragged about what a good fisherman he was. Shannon had gotten him to go fishing for her, but instead Charlie sucked up to Hurley, who back then missed more than he hit with those crude spears he'd fashioned out of bamboo and bits of cut-up soda can. What an idiot Charlie was, Shannon told them. As if he didn't even know that she sat on her beach towel and watched him the whole time, and he no more knew how to fish than she could cook a Christmas turkey. Then, you wouldn't believe it, Shannon said. Hurley threw his spear into the water in disgust, frustrated at all the times he'd failed. It stuck straight up in the water, and when Hurley pulled the spear up, there on the end was a wriggling red fish. Hurley pulled it off the spear and tossed it to Charlie as if he himself didn't need or want it.

That was the fish which a grinning Charlie had brought to Shannon. Back when Shannon had first told her tale, the women laughed until their sides ached, some screaming with laughter, until a few of the guys yelled at them to keep it down. That was when Sawyer gave them the name that stuck. Girl Scout Camp. Worse than a bunch of damn Girl Scouts, Sawyer said. All yapping and hooting and hollering.

Nobody in the women's camp really held it against Sawyer, though. Later, Kathy said it was a compliment. Now Sawyer comes by their fire once in awhile, to trade pins or buttons, or just genteel insults. Mostly the women are ignored by the rest of the beach camp, unless somebody wants something. One odd contribution they've made to beach life, though, is in how they've come up with names for things, names that sometimes stick. Not just "soap plant," either. Kathy has made up names for the directions you take as you walk up and down the coastline. "Sea-left" is when you walk forward and the sea is on your left. "Sea-right" is the opposite. The terms have caught on, and the survivors outside the women's circle use them too.

It's been a week exactly since Shannon has been dead and buried. Sayid refused their offer to prepare Shannon's body, although he did accept a blanket for a shroud. Her killer lives due sea-left of them, a little closer to the ocean, and that is another reason they keep their voices down. Ana Lucia has enough sense not to come anywhere near their fire. Her friend Libby didn't taken the hint for the first few days, though. At first Libby seemed oblivious to the cold stares, the conversations which stopped whenever Libby strolled up to the women's camp as if nothing was wrong. As if nothing had happened. Then she finally got the message, and avoided them, getting to her shelter by going the long way around, instead of crossing by.

The loss of Shannon is bitter. Shannon and Boone had shared a tent until Boone died up at the "rape caves" under weird, suspicious circumstances. The women still look askance at John Locke, who never comes near them. Then, even after Shannon had started sleeping with Sayid, she would come up and stay with them during most of the day, and not just when the two of them fought, either. The women at the camp told Shannon the same thing they'd told Faith, when Faith had hooked up with Craig. You always have a seat at our fire. You're always welcome. As long as the guy's not an asshole.

So back and forth Shannon went, sometimes staying with Sayid, other times sleeping in her old shelter, and all too rarely she'd bring her rolled-up blanket and her little green faux-alligator overnight bag, filled with what was left of her cosmetics. The laughter and talk would go on far into the night. Until Ana Lucia shot her. By accident, as she claimed. But some of the talk on the beach goes in the other direction.

Now, on this morning, the talk still surrounds the topic of Charlie Pace.

"Shannon conned him into getting her a fish."

"He never saw through it."

"Boone had to tell him."

"That was righteously funny."

"He was a dick to Shannon, though."

"Who, Boone or Charlie?"

"Yes," and they snicker.

"I'd say Charlie's definitely being a dick to Claire."

The mood sobers at once. As a group, they look down to the sea-strand where Claire stands ankle-deep in the surf, bouncing her baby, talking to Hurley. There's an air of peace about them that always rises up whenever they are together. From the look of it, Hurley's telling her a story, illustrating it with his hands, and she looks on, rapt with interest. But it's not a funny story, from the look of it, even though they both wear wide smiles. Yet not a downer of a story, either.

"Wish I was a clam in the sand down on that beach. Wonder what they're talking about."

"Ha, not a week ago, you could do a count-down. Five, four, three, two ... and before you'd hit nought, Charlie would tear-ass across the beach, trying to bust up that little convo."

"Not today. Did you see his face this morning?"

"Locke popped him pretty good."

"Never thought I'd say anything in Locke's favor."

"Wanker deserved it."

"Jack stitched him up. Then Charlie had the nerve to ask me for some salve. I told him to piss off."

"I dunno, ladies. Claire's cozying up to Old Baldy. From Charlie to Locke, that seems like going from the frying pan to the fire."

"He's creepy." Other voices murmur in assent.

"Good thing we didn't take him up on those knives."

More agreement. Locke had given some of his vast cache of knives away to certain people. But not without a price. Locke liked it when people owed him. Just like Sawyer. In those terrible early days, the women had watched, bitter, as other people cut fruit or cord with no effort. Then, two miles sea-left along the beach, one of the women had found obsidian. Nearby, Craig's friend Brian found the thick heavy stone called basalt. They broke off chunks of the volcanic glass with basalt, and fashioned the fragments into knives and small axes. The obsidian was so sharp, you could use it to cut hair.

How did you know where it was? Brian had asked the woman who found it, a middle-aged Aussie named Janice.

She didn't know. It just seemed like a good idea to look there.

Now the women owe nothing to John Locke.

A few of the women look over at Libby, who's seated under her tarp with her hands wrapped around her knees. Libby hasn't bothered to put up walls, or maybe she doesn't know how. Ana Lucia certainly hasn't helped her. In fact, Ana Lucia hasn't spoken five words to Libby since the two women from the tail section joined the beach camp. Well, if Ana Lucia wasn't going to help her, the women's camp certainly wasn't.

"Looks like someone else isn't too happy with Claire's _tête-à-tête_."

For Libby is staring at Hurley and Claire, her eyes narrowed, a sour expression on her face.

"Sorry, Kathy," someone murmurs to the heavy-set blonde woman. Everyone knows how Kathy feels, and everyone is also well aware that Hurley doesn't know Kathy's alive. No, that's not right. Hurley pays attention to everyone on the beach, and if even one person is missing, he never forgets it. But that's not the kind of feeling Kathy wants.

"I never should have brought that up," she says.

A chorus rises, first objecting, then trying to soothe. No, no, it's OK, we were just playing a silly game, you had already told us you liked women, so we assumed. No one wanted to see you hurt. Oh, don't think anything of it.

Their circle had formed in the first week after the crash, right before that weird wind from the sea had carried the pieces of the fuselage away, forcing everyone to move to a new camp sea-left down the beach. The women had just found their new camp-site. All day they had dragged luggage and chunks of metal, which left them too exhausted to sleep. So instead, they played a game around their night-time fire, a game called, "Who Would You Shack Up With on a Desert Island?" If you didn't want to answer, the next day you'd have to gather an armload of fruit or firewood.

Back then, Kathy had said that she'd rather go get two armloads of wood than answer. So everyone went ahead of her. Shana had said, Sawyer. Faith had said, Craig, because she had her eye on him from the start. A couple women said, Sayid, which gave rise to a small chorus of agreement.

Then the Indonesian girl, Sirrah, said, No one. Because when they were rescued, if her father found out she wasn't a virgin, he'd probably kill her. Even if she had been stranded on a deserted island.

All at once the game didn't seem so much fun anymore. You don't have to go get fruit, Kathy said to Sirrah. Then Kathy announced she was going to take her turn after all. To everyone's surprise, she picked Hurley. They all looked at her with quizzical expressions, not because anyone disliked him, or anything. But rather because Kathy had already told them how she'd spent her past twelve or so summer vacations in the American Midwest, at a festival where only women were allowed. That was where she'd learned to make camp, to cook outdoors, to build fires, and use what was lying around instead of always relying on stuff from the plane. One other thing, Kathy had told them, so casually that it didn't sink in right away. Pretty much everyone at the festival - everyone Kathy had met, at least - was a woman who liked other women. And so was she. By now, of course, no one thought twice about it. But at the time, when the women played their game, Kathy had surprised them by naming Hurley.

Now the women observe Kathy carefully, testing the quality of her mood and expressions as Hurley talks with Claire on the beach. The sun leaves the women's camp in shadow, so that anyone standing on the beach who happens to look into the trees will see only dim figures in partial darkness. The women turn back to the work spread out before them on the grassy sand.

"She'd have done better to stick with him," a small blonde woman named Sylvie says, gesturing towards Claire. Sylvie is so small and slight in build, she looks like a teenager, even though she is almost Kathy's age. Her grey hat is cut from a piece of fleece, twisted up into little rabbit ears.

"What happened, do you think?"

"Dunno. Remember the memorial service? It was Hurley and Claire's idea."

"Boone's, too."

"But Claire pitched it to Jack."

"Jack doesn't listen to Hurley."

"They did a great job with it, all three of them."

"I cried for a whole day afterwards."

"I wanted to kick that jackass who said that it was as interesting as listening to somebody read the telephone book."

"Remember that prick next to us? The one who said, 'Hey, she's got nice legs, what's she doing up there with Fatso?'"

The talk quiets down for a moment to a lull of murmurs and disgusted looks.

"You know, if she would have shacked up with Hurley, most of this shit wouldn't have happened."

"This shit with Charlie, you mean."

"He would have just moved on down the line, to someone else."

"Someone who would have fallen for his line of crap."

Meredith hasn't said much up till now. She looks around with a nervous expression, as if she expects to be contradicted, twisting a short lock of dyed-black hair as she speaks. "You know - maybe we should have -"

They know where she's going with this.

"Are you kidding?"

"We couldn't -"

"He would have been hanging around here all the time, then. Because he never leaves her alone."

"You saw how Kate had to chase him away from Claire's tent."

"That was pretty awesome, when his guitar case wound up right out there on the sand."

"Yeah, and none of those big strapping men stepped in, did they?"

"We know what that's about."

"Locke."

"He thinks he's next in line."

"Screw him."

"No thanks!" Laughter rises like a wave, drawing Libby's attention. They stare back at her until she gets up and heads for the beach.

"Five ... four ... three ... two ... one ..."

"Cock-block!"

"You called it."

Libby joins Claire and Hurley at the surf-line.

"Look at his face."

"No more sweet Hurley smile."

"Hey, Kathy. Back then, in our game. Why'd you pick him?"

"Besides the obvious? Because I figured that if I had half a chance of surviving, it'd be with him. Hey, cut me some slack. I didn't know you ladies then."

Their laughter passes over like small, light birds crossing the noon sky.

"Not the great white hunter, or the witch doctor, or the Malboro Man?"

"Sheesh, Faith, you're as bad as Sawyer."

"I'm a Southern gal. It comes naturally."

"Thought you said you were a quarter Cherokee."

"There are still Cherokee in the middle South."

"So, Kathy, why him? I mean, for surviving?"

"I dunno. He watches out for people, is all."

"I know what you mean," Sirrah says. "His eyes are kind."

Claire walks off, leaving Hurley alone with Libby on the beach.

"Someone's not happy."

"What happened to the two of them back then, do you think?"

"My opinion, it started when Claire got heat-sick."

"Heat-sick?"

"Remember, we had that heat wave where the clouds just sat there overhead, but it didn't rain?"

"I thought I was going to collapse, and I wasn't nine months pregnant, either."

"They put her in that infirmary tent, the one Dr. Jack rigged up. He got the idea that she should sleep on a cot, not the ground."

"Like that's going to help heat stroke?"

"Something about sleeping on the ground being bad for the baby."

A middle-aged woman named Jane with a stern expression and a British accent breaks in. "Oh, bollocks. Like babies never got born before there were beds."

"Seriously."

"So, anyway, Claire's stuck in that tent."

"A target-rich environment, in other words."

"In he swoops."

"Claiming his territory."

"Then Hurley moves up to the caves with Jack. And Claire stays here."

"Big mistake."

"What, Claire staying here? Shannon nailed it. The rape caves."

"No, why Hurley left. I mean, if he liked her and all that."

"Maybe he wanted to leave it up to her."

"Maybe."

"Jack probably told him to go."

"Yeah, Jack doesn't listen to him, but he sure likes Hurley around to do the fetching and carrying."

"He shouldn't have gone up there."

Silence falls over the group for a few seconds, until it's broken by Meredith's nervous voice. "That was when we should have, you know, asked her."

"We didn't have to ask Shannon."

"There's a big difference. Shannon knew Boone was being a jerk."

"Yeah, she didn't need to have it spelled out for her either, did she."

Voices of objection and agreement rise and fall. Kathy lets it go on for awhile and then breaks in. "No, Meredith is right. That was when we should have asked her. But now -" She lets her voice trail off.

"It was that stupid trick with the empty jar that did it."

A disgusted groan rises in chorus.

"Could you believe that?"

"Christ." This is said in real contempt.

"Imaginary peanut butter."

"Sometimes you don't have to construct the metaphors. Reality provides them all on its own."

"Well, it worked. It got her off the beach."

"Up to the rape caves."

"With him."

"Hurley was at the caves too, right?"

"Yup."

"So why didn't Hurley -"

"I don't know."

"I wasn't up there, myself. No way."

"We could, you know, walk down now and pay her a visit."

"Go ahead, if you want."

"But Pace, he's not welcome here."

"Come on, we all agree about that. This is about Claire, though. And the baby."

"It's up to her."

"Well, yeah, of course. But if we were back home, would you just dump her? Hell, you'd be giving her the number of the local women's shelter."

"If you haven't noticed, we're not at home. No shelters. There are no cops."

"Not that they were ever worth a damn in a situation like this."

"Be that as it may. I'm glad you all don't feel that way about Craig."

"Or Brian."

Shana sets down her basalt sanding block, and her voice has a sharp edge. "We're not in Kansas anymore, girls. We have to take care of ourselves. Because nobody else is going to. So yeah. Remember what we agreed. If a woman shares our fire, and she's with a guy, he better not be an asshole."

"You know, it was interesting with Sayid. He never gave us any crap when Shannon hung around up here."

"I guess he was used to it."

"Used to what?"

"Women having their own circles. Their own space."

They ponder that for a moment as they watch Hurley and Libby part ways, him walking sea-right and Libby sea-left.

"Now with him, that'd be different."

"Women scare him."

"Not all women. Kate doesn't scare him, not any more. They're tight now. Not like boyfriend-girlfriend, but tight."

"I helped him a bit with the manifest. He's cool, as long as you don't make goo-goo eyes at him."

"Think he's gay?"

A few murmurs of conversation show that the subject has come up more than once. Finally Sylvie says, "Nah. You've seen how he looks at Claire."

"Libby, too."

Once more, looks of sympathy dart towards Kathy, and a few women say that they're sorry.

"Hey, I'm over it."

"Oh, please."

"Don't kid a kidder."

"No, really," Kathy says. "Besides, I saw his date of birth on the flight list. If I'd gotten an early enough start, I'd be old enough to be his mom. So no, it's OK. Really."

"So what is it?"

"Huh?"

"His birthday."

"Something in December. 1980."

"Yeah, too young for you, for sure," and a few women laugh, but not unkindly.

"See, I told you," Kathy says.

"Somebody else is a bit old for Hurley, too," Jane says, as Libby walks back from the beach to her shelter.

"Sshhh, she's coming over here. She'll hear you."

"Doesn't she have anything to do around here? I mean, really. When she's not chasing him around, she's -"

"Sitting on her ass, sulking."

"Have you seen that look she gives people when their heads are turned?"

"Yeah, like a bad smell."

"Quiet."

Libby goes into her shelter and lies down, her back towards the women's camp. They soon forget her, though, as a tall, rangy figure saunters in their direction.

"Hey, here comes Sawyer."

"Wonder what he wants?"

Sawyer was seriously wounded when he came back with Ana Lucia and her tiny band, but now he's got some of his swagger back. He ambles up to the circle, keeping a respectful distance. "Afternoon, ladies."

Kathy looks around the group, and her expression says, _Ho, ho, he said 'ladies,' so that means he wants something._ She gives him a cool and collected smile. "Howdy, Sawyer. How's the arm?"

"Right as rain," he answers with a broad grin.

"Fast recovery."

"I take my vitamins."

"So what can we do you for?"

"Well, you gals have quite a reputation as soap makers, and I was wondering if your potion worked as well on clothes as on your dewy-fresh faces." He ignores a few sniggers at the stab at flattery.

"We can make you some that'll work better on clothing."

"It'll be worth the wait."

"Well, you're the bosses. Unless you want to go ahead and sell that recipe for your secret sauce." Met with silence, Sawyer adds, "Didn't think so."

Kathy is ready to bargain. "Five sewing needles, and a pair of scissors. Doesn't matter what kind. In exchange for two coconut bowls' worth of laundry soap."

"Two needles," Sawyer retorts.

"I hear sea-water's good for washing clothes, especially boxers," Kathy says with a bland expression. "Until the sea-water dries, and the salt gets into your skin. In all the tender spots."

"Three." He folds his arms.

"Hey, Sawyer," Shana says. "Why don't you just get some laundry soap from that Hatch? They probably have ten years' worth down there."

"Well, if you fine ladies here at the back of the beach haven't noticed, Dr. Giggles and his bald sidekick have kind of taken over the Hatch. And I'm not exactly in their club."

Kathy nods. "We noticed."

"So what's it going to be, gals?"

"Five needles, and a pair of scissors."

"Four."

"Done."

"OK, then," Sawyer drawls out, satisfied. "I'll bring 'em by right now."

"Ooh, speedy delivery," Jane pipes up. Kathy silences her with a look not hostile, but firm.

"No need, Sawyer," Kathy says. "I won't have your soap till tomorrow, anyway."

"Yeah, well, I know you all are good for it," he says in a grumbling tone, but still friendly.

"Hey, Sawyer," Shana says as he turns to go. "You bunk down there by Claire, right? Could you, like, keep an eye on her?"

Sawyer raises an eyebrow in a way that makes Kathy's heart sink. "Yeah? Now what makes you think Missy Claire needs me to squire her around the cotillion? Last I heard, Colonel Kurtz was moving in."

"Oh, Christ on a velocipede," Jane says in a low voice, but Sawyer hears.

He half-turns around to stare at them, his face hard. "Delivery's just been canceled, ladies. You can bring my soap down to the beach when it's ready, and get your sewing circle kit then." He turns and strides back to the sandy, open area of the beach.

"Jane," Kathy says with a sigh. "You just got yourself a job. You can pick up the needles. And check on Claire, OK?"

"What a tosser," Jane says in disgust, but she nods her head.

"Somebody remind me, we need him why?"

"I thought we talked about not trading with him."

"Come on, you want him as an enemy?"

"Hey, Kathy, why'd you settle for four needles instead of five?"

"Because he's the kind of man who likes to feel as if he's winning. I was surprised when he went for four, though. I thought he was going to hold firm at three."

The women shift and stretch. Morning is over. It is time to get on with the afternoon's work.

"Man, I'm stiff."

"Me too, but you know, it's not so bad, sitting on the ground."

"Don't miss chairs that much anymore."

"Time to cut some fruit."

They look over at Libby. With her back still turned towards them, she seems to be asleep, but you never can tell.

"Do you think she'll-"

"She's never followed us before."

"We should bring more mango this time."

"I think that what we brought last time was a hit. She looked pleased."

"Who doesn't like mango?"

"How about more dragon fruit?"

"Dragon fruit is so pretty. The basket should look nice. I think she'd like that."

"Did you see her smile last time? I mean, she looks a hundred years old, but still-"

"Yeah, that's some smile. Hope I look that good when I'm her age."

They all fall quiet now, and finish the basket of cut fruit for the little old woman who lives somewhere out there in the jungle, a mile or so away from the sea, in that part of the forest where the vines are so thick on the trees that you can't even see the trunks. Or maybe the old woman just visits there, because they've never seen a shelter or hut of any kind. There's nothing in the clearing but a pile of flat stones about four feet high, obviously stacked on purpose. The stone pile is surrounded by thick red foliage which looks like it's been planted there.

The women first saw her about three weeks ago, as they roamed farther inland than they'd ever strayed before, looking for dead-fall. They have agreed to cut no living trees, and dead wood has become increasingly hard to find. The old woman didn't say anything at first, just stood next to the piled-up stones, and smiled at them. She was naked to the waist, with a skirt made of glossy green leaves, and her hair fell in thick ringlets of white-streaked grey. When the women saw her, the old woman raised her finger to her lips in an unmistakable gesture.

Ssshhhh. Don't tell anyone.

So they didn't, and just crept back to the beach camp in stunned silence. No one remembered who first suggested that they go back the next day and bring her some food. After all, she wasn't just old. She was ancient. Maybe she'd been shipwrecked a long time ago. It had to be hard for her to provide for herself.

A few days later, the women went collecting wood again, and a few of them brought along some mangoes, bananas, and a beautiful pinkish-red sea bream which they would have loved to roast for their own lunch. But the old woman probably needed it more than they did.

The old woman wasn't there, though, so they left the fish and fruit at the base of the stone pile. Shana remarked that the old woman had better get that fish pretty soon, or it was going to go over fast, in this heat.

One day shortly after, the women came back with one of their carved bowls filled with banana-mango salad tossed with coconut cream, and the old woman was waiting for them.

She came over to the group, and the top of her head barely came up to the shortest woman's shoulder. Then she began to speak in a language none of them knew, a language more like song than speech. While the women didn't understand it, they recognized it at once, because the same cadences rang in the water which flowed in the jungle streams, or resonated in the melodious chatter of birds. Then the old woman stuck her wrinkled finger into the salad and took a taste. Grinning with approval, she sat down and started to eat it as the women left.

The next time the women came, Shannon went along too. Boone had just died, and they didn't want to leave Shannon alone for too long. Their bowl sat atop the stones, scrubbed shiny and clean. The women left their offering and turned to go, when all of a sudden, the old woman glided out of the forest shadows towards them, making no sound at all. She came right up to Shannon and took the food from Shannon's hands, setting it on the ground.

Then to everyone's surprise, the old woman took Shannon's face into her hands and not so much kissed her, as breathed on her, rubbing her wrinkled old nose against Shannon's smooth forehead. What was that about? Shannon didn't know, but she said that the old woman's breath smelled like roses. The most beautiful roses ever, better than any perfume.

So today the women are here, all of them, and the high afternoon sun beats down on the old woman's clearing. They've arranged dragon fruit, mango, and a few small oranges in a basket, and garnished it with ferns and something that smells like parsley.

She's there waiting for them. After accepting their gift with a small nod, she raises her finger and says something in her waterfall of a language. Her stern expression tells them, Pay attention.

The old woman clears a spot on the ground, using a fallen palm leaf as a broom. With a long wooden walking stick she starts to draw in the sandy soil. First, she makes a long, curved line with wiggly lines like waves to one side of it.

"The beach," a few women murmur.

The old woman nods, and then draws a few trees with a fire in the center. She points her stick at the women, then at the fire, and then at the women again, getting her point across.

"Our camp."

As the old woman continues to draw, landmarks become clear.

"Look, there's the edge of that cliff. The steep one."

"The flat valley. What Hurley calls the Mesa."

"Yeah, where Dr. Jack plays golf."

"Hey, that looks like bamboo."

"The bamboo forest."

"It's a map."

"Oh, my goddess, a map."

The map grows several feet wide on the reddish ground.

"Look at that spot where she's marked."

"That's the part of the jungle we're not supposed to go."

"What's it called, the Dark Zone or something?"

"The Dark Territory."

"Who says we're not supposed to go there?"

"Jack."

"Screw Jack."

"Does anybody have any paper?"

No one does. Kathy pulls out a Sharpie marker. "Who's willing to give up her shirt?"

Shana takes off her outer camisole, leaving the one underneath to cover her bra. Kathy copies the map carefully onto the pale peach cotton. On the ground, the old woman draws a circle right in the center of the Dark Territory, and points to it several times for emphasis.

"What's it for?"

"It's obvious," Faith answers. "We're supposed to go there."

"When?"

"How will we know?"

"What are we supposed to do there?"

"Sshhh," the old woman says, finger to her lips.

"We'll go when the time comes," Kathy says, and the old woman nods.

"Does she understand us?"

"I don't think -"

"She must."

"Well, then, why -"

Kathy breaks through the chatter. "When? When do we go?"

The old woman points up to the sky with her walking stick. She clears the ground off with the palm leaf, then draws a thin crescent waxing moon. She points to the moon, then once again indicates the sky.

At first the women are befuddled. Then at once they understand. "The moon! The new moon's just come into the sky!" A few of them have started watching the moon, and have started marking where the sun comes up over the horizon as the days pass. They haven't paid as much attention to the stars, not yet. Sayid told Shannon that the stars were strange, that he didn't recognize them. But the moon, now the moon is the same as she has always been.

The old woman nods, with strength. She draws more moons which grow fatter as she scratches them across the ground with her stick. Then they grow thinner again, and thinner still, until there's no moon left at all. That's the one. She points to it three times, to make sure they understand.

Faith is the first to get it. "The dark moon. That's when we're supposed to leave."

"Makes sense," Kathy answers. "It'll be easier to slip away."

The old woman hits the next dark moon again, so hard that sandy dirt flies up.

"Right. At the next dark moon, we're supposed to leave for the spot you showed us on the map. And then stay there. Live there. Until it's safe."

Yes, the old woman nods. Yes. She places her own hands broadly across her flat old breasts as if to say, I'll be there too. I'll be waiting for you. She gives them a final once-over glance, like a housewife regarding her freshly-scrubbed floor, and turns to go. But before she can leave, Kathy says, "Wait. What's your name? Who are you?"

"Haumea," the old woman says.

"Haumea?"

"Her name's Haumea?"

"I'm Kathy."

Haumea waves her hand in a gesture of dismissal, as if to say, I already know all this. Then she hands her thin wooden walking stick to Kathy.

"You want me to keep this?"

Haumea nods.

Kathy gives a little bow. It seems the right thing to do. "Thank you."

The rest of the women pick up the chorus. "Thank you." "Thank you."

But Haumea, the old woman of the forest, has already melted into the deep green shadows. In a few seconds she is gone.

For some strange reason, the thicket is full of dead-fall today, and they gather as much as they can carry. As they walk back to camp, Shana asks Kathy, "Do you think she made it?" It's a beautiful thing, covered with circular designs carved into the dark reddish wood.

"I dunno. Look at the polish on the surface. It's like glass. If you like it, take it."

"Hey, she gave it to you."

"We can share."

As they walk back to the beach camp, the rest of the women can hardly suppress their excitement.

"Not a word of this. To anyone."

"The guys can come. Craig. Brian."

"Kenneth. He's helped us a lot."

"Yeah, he's a good guy."

"Jerome, too."

"Don't forget Doug."

"Sylvie, I know you won't forget him."

Sylvie blushes.

"Rose and Bernard?"

"Nah, Rose likes Charlie. It's like he's her pet or something. He goes sniffling to her about Claire, and she tells him Claire doesn't really mean it, yadda yadda."

"Ugh."

"What about Sayid? Shannon would have wanted him to come."

"Sayid's changed."

"Look, I know he's sad over Shannon, but -"

"Yeah, can you blame him?"

"No, but he's changed. Watch him. You'll see what I mean."

"What about Hurley?"

Everyone waits for Kathy to speak, but she just marches on through the greenwood, her shoulders rigid. Finally she says, "No." The word tears out of her like a fish hook stuck in your hand, one you have to push all the way through to get it out of the tender flesh.

"Why?"

"I mean, he's so not an asshole."

"He's the anti-asshole."

"And strong. Did you see him lift those food pallets? When he gave all that food away, from that Hatch thing?"

"No!" Kathy repeats, a little too loudly, and everyone stops.

"Oh, I get it. Libby."

"She has a point. Hurley can't keep a secret to save his neck."

"Libby can get anything out of him."

"All she has to do is drop a bra-strap."

Another game of theirs is to bet how long it will take for two people at the beach camp to wind up sleeping under the same tarp together. The women are remarkably good at it, and their guesses are usually on the mark. But this time they don't do it, out of respect for Kathy's feelings.

This isn't the reason Kathy said no, not really, but Kathy doesn't say anything at first. She can't explain why she thinks asking Hurley along would place at the top of the stack of very bad ideas. "Look, trust me on this, OK? In the short run it would be great. In the long run -" She stops, defeated by her inability to explain this new way of knowing. Of seeing.

But they've already started moving on again, laden with wood but with spirits lighter than they've been since the crash, and their thoughts turn to preparations. Now that they have something to do, they focus on the tasks like light through a magnifying glass.

"We need to get ready."

"Get our stuff packed. Dry some fish."

"A lot of fish. And those calamari things, too. They last forever."

"But on the sly."

"Let's build fish-drying stands. We can say that it's for trade."

"Nobody is going to notice," and it is true. They all feel it at once, how un-noticed they are by the people at the beach who've styled themselves as leaders.

"We could walk out of there tomorrow, and no one would miss us," Shana says, finally.

They're quiet for a moment, as the weight of it settles on them.

"Well, not no one."

"Yeah. But for all practical purposes -"

"I'm going to miss seafood," Sylvie remarks as they come in sight of the beach camp.

"Maybe we won't be out there in the Dark Territory for very long."

If they knew their stay would extend for a little over three years, their hearts perhaps would not be so light.

In the remaining daylight hours, the women work quietly, sharing their anticipation only through little glances or touches on the shoulder. Each is like a woman newly pregnant with a baby long expected and prepared for, but who doesn't want to tell anyone yet. Jane and Faith talk to the men about their encounter with the old woman in the clearing. The others lash together bamboo poles for drying racks, stopping occasionally to stir taro root stew for their dinner.

As twilight approaches, it's too late to collect soap plants, and the drying racks are done. Shana and Jane, Meredith and Sirrah take up their nets, to head down to the tide pools to fish for squid and octopus. Before they go, Kathy hands the old woman's stick to Shana and says, "It might come in handy."

"Hey, I'm not that old. I think I can make it to the beach and back without a cane."

But Shana takes it anyway, and it balances light and strong in her hand. Once they cast their nets, it takes almost no effort to fill their baskets to overflowing. They have to stop when they run out of room. Never before has anyone had such a catch, not even the Korean fisherman, Jin. It's almost as if the soft little creatures are swimming directly into the women's nets.

Evening clothes the sea in a deep purple robe fringed with white sea-foam lace. The women build a small fire, and over the coals they roast a late supper of octopus. Soon Hurley thumps along, kicking up sand in a half-jog. For the past few days he's been power-walking up and down the beach, like some huge beast pacing in its cage. Meredith and Sirrah don't get why he's doing it, but Jane and Shana do, and hot anger burns inside them.

"Hey, Hurley."

He stops. Shana squeezes a lemon over the rows of boneless little bodies browning on their bamboo slivers and says, "Look at all the octopus we caught. Come over and have some."

"Hey, Shana. Love to, but I gotta exercise." He bends down to sniff the fragrance, though. "Hi, Meredith. Hi, Sirrah. Yo, Jane."

"Oh, come on, Hurley, sit down. We don't see you around much anymore."

He laughs the weak laugh of a man with secret preoccupations.

Shana pulls an octopus shish-kebab off the fire and hands it to him first, then passes the rest around to the others. As they eat, she places more octopus on to cook and thinks, _What a damn shame we can't bring him with us._ Then, all at once, she understands how right it was for Kathy to say no. He praises the food, and his compliments warm Shana, who gladly gives him more without him having to ask. He eats like a man tired of his own cooking, but it's more than that. It's as if every bite represents some great struggle between shame and desire, and for a moment Shana gets a glimpse of two armies locked in mortal struggle on a vast battle plain. Then the vision passes, and all she's left with is the sense that Hurley has a long bitter journey ahead of him, through a deep forest mired in darkness, and that the woods which beckon him are not the same as those to which they go. But there's some kind of promise in there, too. A huge one. If she were more old-fashioned, she might even call it destiny.

Hurley thanks them, and there's that smile again, fainter than it used to be, but still shining like a lighthouse in the harbor.

"Take some of these down to Claire, would you?" Jane says, handing him half-a-dozen skewers of roasted octopus wrapped in a rag, to keep out the sand.

Hurley's lost that haunted look, at least for now. Then he takes off down the beach, to where Claire lives, as far sea-right as you can go and still be in the beach camp. This time he's not jogging, but rambling along at his usual pace, and he whistles a few short, tuneless bars.

Meredith puts out the fire while Shana and Sirrah gather up the catch. Jane glances over the beach, up and down, back and forth, an old habit formed in the days when they still thought a ship or plane might come to get them. When she spies Charlie sitting alone by a sputtering fire, she gives Shana a nudge. They watch with shrewd calculation as Sawyer joins him. The two men soon put their heads together, deep in conversation.

"Look," Shana says.

"Isn't that cozy."

"Wonder what that's all about."

"What's he doing down at this end of the beach?"

"Dunno, maybe he's slumming."

"Those two are thick as thieves, aren't they?"

"Whatever they're talking about, Sawyer's pretty adamant."

"I don't like it."

Sirrah just sighs. "I'm so ready to get out of here."

"It's going to be a long month," Shana agrees.

Above them flickers the crescent moon, thin as the worn edge of an old coin left in a drawer, long forgotten.

(_The End_)


End file.
